Sand in the Vagina

Sometimes I am amazed by the lack of responsibility I seem to possess when it comes to caring for inanimate objects. Awhile back, I decided to fuck up my car. While turning my car on ice, I overcorrected my steering and slid sideways into a curb, thus obliterating two tires, two tire sensors, and two wheels. Throw in a screwed-up suspension and you have one hell of a sweet bill from your local car-fixy-place. It's also fun when your insurance adjuster calls to confirm where you have sent your broken car one morning only to not show up at confirmed location and therefore sticking you with the bill. However, car was seemingly fine after repairs and life went on...

Until about a week and a half later. Once again we find our heroine driving her beloved brand new car in wintry weather. Well, it wasn't exactly wintry at that moment but the remnants of the precipitation from the day before were still lurking. Enter in "big flying ice chunk" from semi a couple hundred feet up the interstate. "Big flying ice chunk" nosedives into the front of my vehicle on the passenger side. I worry about my tire once again being annihilated, only to discover the tire is fine but that a chunk of my front bumper around my fog lights is missing. A little part of me dies every time I walk by said damage. With any luck I'll still be alive next week.

Today, I tested out my new Christmas present: a vacuum. Please, please, hold the applause. For the first ten minutes this apparatus was among the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. Enter random strand of Christmas lights I run over with the vacuum. The air was saturated with the scent of death. When the vacuum powered down, I realized there had been two casualties: the lights and the vacuum. The vacuum is fixable as it just needs a new belt, but there will be no joy in vacuuming for me until I go retrieve said belt from a store.

Along with my dog having the runs, having no food in my fridge, and having to return to work once again tonight, I feel like someone would might they have sand in their vagina. Minus the physical sensation and much more of the angsty, emo-ridden, piss-and-vinegar-coursing-through-the-veins state of mind.

Captain Jerkface

It's getting to be that time of year when my isolationist tendencies seem to get the best of me. For most of my life, I've probably fit of the profile of someone who is a "loner." I'm not a sad, emo "loner"; rather instead I'm just someone who has become extremely comfortable and accustomed to doing things on their own. I live alone, for the most part I'm sleeping alone, I'm eating alone, I'm watching TV alone, and I do other stuff alone. When my schedule allows for it, I socialize with friends. Granted it's the same three to five people I socialize with every time, but this typically doesn't bother me.

The last time I went back to my parents' house in my hometown, it dawned on me that none of the people I was hanging out with were there because of me; they were there to see my brother. This is fine as I have purposely not kept in touch with more than a handful of people from that town, none of whom are still in that area. However, it was also then I realized that the one good friend I still had there was someone I hadn't spoken to in what's probably closing in on one year.

Long story short, I am terrible at keeping in contact with others. Everyone promises to write or call or whatever and that lasts about one go-around before you never hear from them again. I am notorious for putting the burden of friendship maintenance on the other person, a quality that has caused some to label me as distant or indifferent, neither of which I purposely intended to be.

What is the protocol for trying to reconnect with old friends? Is there x amount of time that passes by before you should just accept bygones as bygones?

Why won't you like me?

And why can't I accept the fact that it's really okay if you don't?